Synchronicity
by Tempestt
Summary: Dean gets on the wrong side of a testy sorceress, and the result has dire consequences for the brothers.  Can they solve their little problem before all hell breaks loose?  Rated for language, assume all spoilers through AHBLII.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or make a profit from it.

A/N: This story was originally named Sword and Shield, but I have just discovered that there is another Supernatural fic with the same name. Huh. So in an effort to be original, it has been renamed.

Synchronicity

Chapter One

Dean Winchester liked women. All kinds of women. Short ones, tall ones. Thin ones, ones with a little meat on their bones. Blondes, brunettes. It didn't much matter to him. As long as she wasn't bad looking, he'd make a pass at her. Sam liked to joke that Dean had skipped the line that was handing out discretionary genes when he was born. That was what he liked to call the little voice in your head that mentally rated the person you were speaking to for the 'good time' factor. There was no use denying it existed. Even Sam had a voice that separated women into, "I would do her; wouldn't do her," categories and he was the epitome of the sensitive male. It was just human nature.

Coupled with even a minutely developed survival instinct this voice was the one that warned you that a woman had a boyfriend that could likely put you in the hospital or within five minutes of meeting a girl it pointed out that she was buckets of crazy. Okay, so maybe Sam's discretionary gene wasn't in perfect working order either, but he knew for a fact that Dean's didn't work worth a damn. Either that or he flat out ignored it when it chimed off in his head.

So when a woman with flaming red-hair and eyes that were so pale blue that they looked like a china doll's walked up to Dean he did what came naturally to him. He flirted. When a sly smile spread across her kissable lips that screamed _Trouble_ with a capital T, the only voice in Dean's head that perked up was his oversexed libido which was very secure in the knowledge that the woman across from him was smoking hot and wanted to do him.

Now Dean was not a kiss and cuddle after sex kind of guy. In fact his whole objective while in bed with a woman was to avoid the Aftermath (again, capitalized for severity) of sex. The best way he found to do that was to exhaust the woman in question. This single-minded quest of avoiding cuddle time was satisfying to both parties, and usually the woman fell into a languid, bliss-filled sleep within moments of finishing.

He always waited a few minutes to make sure that they were fully unconscious before slipping from their bed and gathering up his clothes. After a few instances in his late teens and early twenties he found that avoiding dawn's early light was also a best kept policy. There was nothing worse than waking up next to a woman whose name you forgot. Unless of course, they woke up with you and expected you to remember their name, _and_ to surrender to some quality morning cuddle time.

So he always snuck out right after, preferring to fall asleep in his queen-sized bed rented for the night in some flea bag hotel. There was a sense of security in it, a feeling of hominess, that had nothing to do with the hotel room and everything to do with the fact that Sam was sleeping in the next bed over. Also explaining to a woman why he couldn't sleep unless there was a bowie knife under his pillow, uh, _awkward_.

After the red-head fell asleep, he eased away from her, slipping on his jeans and shirts quietly. With a hunter's stealth he crept through her house, innately remembering all the obstacles between the bedroom and the front door even though he had only traveled the path once and the entire time he had been lip locked.

He stopped off at the kitchen, noticing a pad of teddy bear-shaped sticky notes on the counter. He scribbled a quick note of thanks, and stuck it to the fridge, sneaking a long-neck on the way out. He was taking a swig of beer as he left, feeling pretty damn satisfied, and more than a little tired.

Now, Sam was used to Dean stumbling in at all hours of the night. He barely even tensed anymore beyond the first reaction of reaching for his gun when the door handle rattled. Just as quickly he would relax, able to recognize Dean anywhere just by the sound of his breathing or the way the air shifted around him when he walked. There was just a deep sense of _knowing_, and his eyes were closing before they were even completely open.

Dean shed his clothes while walking across the room, setting the now empty beer bottle on the nightstand before falling into the bed. He barely had enough time to shove his knife under the pillow before he fell asleep face-down on top of the blankets. It was like any other night at the end of a hard hunt, and really, what happened next couldn't be called abnormal either, which was why Sam thought later, he really wished that Dean hadn't skipped the line that was handing out discretion.

88888888

"A post-it note!"

Sam and Dean bolted upright in their beds. Dean with his knife flashing out in a blind slash, just in case something life-threatening was hovering over him, and Sam with his .45 aimed at the light that had manifested itself by the T.V. stand.

"A demon?" Sam choked out, looking for confirmation from Dean. His eyes were still blurry from sleep and all he could see was a streaming mass of flaming red-hair floating on end as a blue-white wind rushed around a petite woman at the end of his bed.

"A witch," Dean replied as he tried to scramble over to the table where his Dad's journal lay.

He said tried, because as soon as he moved he found himself pinned to the headboard by invisible hands. A quick glance told him that Sam was being held in exactly the same manner. That was bad, but the dawning understanding on Sam's face was _so _much worse.

"Dammit, Dean! How many fucking times do I have to tell you, not to fuck with or should I say, not to _fuck_ witches!"

"And I told you, little brother, I would stop as soon as they came with warning labels stamped on their asses that say, "Beware, piss me off and I'll hex you."

The sad fact that this wasn't the first time that they had this particular conversation was what really pissed Sam off. _I mean, really. It was one thing to hunt down evil. It was another to have it show up in your hotel room because your brother can't keep it in his pants._

"Hey! This is not about your little family squabbles. This is about me, and the fact that Dean Boy here snuck away in the middle of the night with only a post-it note as a good bye."

She held up the offending pink, teddy bear post-it note in question, waving it around like it was a loaded gun. The wind that was surrounding her died down, but she still glowed a milky blue, illuminating the room subtly.

Sam cocked an eye towards Dean who was wisely saying nothing.

She glanced down at it, reading his note to the room. "Thanks for the good time. Call you."

She looked up at Dean, fuming. "Call you? You don't even have my number, you dick! Good time? Not great? Not excellent? I thought it was pretty goddamn fantastic. Couldn't you have least said that?"

Dean smirked. It was a smirk that Sam saw regularly and it still annoyed him every time. It was Dean's, I'm-sex-on-a-stick-and-I-know-you-want-some smirk. The witch's eyes narrowed dangerously and Sam scrambled to defuse the situation.

"I'm sure he would have said that, but Dean doesn't know how to spell the word fantastic."

That got him a glare of the deadliest kind from his brother, but he felt that the low jab was deserved. After all, it wasn't his antics that had gotten them woken up at the god-awful hour of four in the morning. The witch ignored him and continued to shoot daggers at Dean with her eyes.

"You know what your problem is?"

Sam snorted with condescension, clearly saying without words that he could list a whole slew of Dean's problems and probably run out of fingers and toes doing it.

"Shut up, Sammy."

"You shut up, Dean _Boy._"

"Both of you shut up!" she shrieked, and if they could of they would have covered their heads afraid that their ear drums would start to bleed.

She abandoned her station in the center of the room and stalked over to the foot of Dean's bed, jabbing her finger at him.

"Your problem is that you're afraid to commit, even for a single night. The thought of waking up next to the same woman you fell asleep with is terrifying to you."

Dean's green eyes narrowed as he matched her glare. There was nothing he hated more than someone trying to psychoanalyze him. As if they could actually peer into his life instead of having to live it, and make pronouncements about what was wrong with it. It was his life, dammit, right or wrong, and no one had the right to judge it.

"Well, I don't know about that," he drawled. "Sammy and I have had a long and meaningful relationship filled with all kinds of chick flick moments, fufu coffee and emo rock. In fact--" He turned to his brother, his eyes wide with insincerity." Sammy, would you marry me?"

Oh.

My.

God.

Sam had never actually seen the physical manifestation of fury before, but there was no mistaking that Dean's tasteless joke made the witch absolutely livid. A tremor crept through her body, starting in her legs, and traveling up her spine until her fists and jaw clenched tightly. Her entire body shook with suppressed rage and that was _before_ her face flushed an interesting shade of heart-attack crimson.

Sam took a moment to be concerned about her blood pressure.

"Do you think this is funny?" she spat.

"Well, actually. Yeah---"

"No," Sam cut in quickly. "No, he doesn't. I'm sure that he's terribly sorry that he wounded you so deeply. Dean, apologize to the lady for your inconsideration."

Dean rolled his eyes to the side to stare at his brother. The set line to his mouth looked anything but apologetic.

"Oh, yes, DEAN. Apologize." Her words were harsh and brittle, like sugar glass that was getting ready to shatter.

"I will not. I didn't do anything wrong."

Sam groaned, and if he could have he would have slumped down into the bed and pulled the covers up over his head. Sometimes there were no saving people when they were hell-bent on destroying themselves.

"Fine," she said in a voice deep with dangerous promise.

"Fine," Dean snapped back.

She pulled out a short stick from behind her back that was topped with a fat gold star. Sam blinked.

"Is that a _Barbie_ Fairy Princess wand?" he asked aghast.

Dean shot him an equally aghast look. "How the hell would you know that, Sammy?"

"Dude," Sam gestured wildly towards the woman with his chin, since his fingers were still splayed against the head board. "It has pink foil tassels."

The witch scowled at her wand, her lower lip pudging out just a bit. "My mother gave me this when I was little."

Dean peered closer, a dark brow winging up. "Is that glitter water in the stem?"

She looked back at Dean. "It doesn't matter what the conduit is, just the power that it channels."

"Yah. Buckets of crazy with mommy issues," Dean muttered under his breath.

"Could be worse. Could be daddy issues." Sam had no idea what made him chime in, but the appearance of the _Barbie_ wand seemed to have lessened the threat factor in the room.

The witch's eyes hardened menacingly and the temperature dropped at least ten degrees, causing Sam to rethink the situation.

"I think you need a lesson in commitment, Dean Winchester."

"Oh, God. You told her your true name. What _is _wrong with you Dean?"

"Shut up, Sam." He glared at the woman in front of him, hell spewing from his eyes. "What the fuck is your problem? We had a good time, now you want to get all _Exorcist_ on me."

"You're selfish, that's what my problem is. You have no consideration for anyone, but yourself."

"I gave you _plenty_ of consideration. At least three, but who's counting?" He dipped his head dismissively, before his lips curled into a vindictive sneer. "You think just because we fucked for a couple of hours that you know me? You don't know what I've sacrificed for my family. You don't know anything."

"So there is only room for loyalty to family and screw anyone else who steps in the way no matter how innocent they are? Well, let's just see just how committed to family you are after crawling around inside each other for a while."

She lifted her wand, writing glowing red runes in the air. Her eyes lit up, spilling a milky blue light as she centered her stare on Dean. The wind kicked up again, tearing papers from the hunt off the walls until it whipped around her in a whirlwind.

"Two will become one," she intoned, and the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stood on end.

"One body."

"One mind."

"One soul."

"So mote it be."

A spell so simplistic in its brutality.

Beams of light shot out from the runes in the air, encasing the brothers in a red glow. They convulsed on their beds as the light hit them, twisting up their bodies, trying to wrench themselves away from the agony. Their screams were unheard, locked behind clenched teeth.

Over the tumult they could hear her vow. "You shall walk as one until the next Harvest Moon then you shall be torn asunder."

The wind died down, and the papers settled on the floor. The red light disappeared, and the blue glow dispersed. When they opened their eyes it was to a dark room, the witch having left them to their fate.

"Dean?" Sam gasped.

"Still here."

_Thank God, _Sam thought. All he could pray for while the agony twisted his body was _please, please, don't let her words be literal._ He could not imagine being trapped in the same body as Dean. Now that would be a freaking nightmare.

They laid there for some moments, side by side, listening to each other's harsh breathing while they recovered. Sam stared up at the ceiling unmoving, knowing instinctively that Dean was doing the same.

"So what do you suppose she meant?" Sam asked tentatively, running the words of her curse through his head, analyzing them from every angle.

"How the hell should I know?" Dean spat angrily, which in turn only pissed off Sam.

"Dammit, Dean. Why can't you use some discretion just once in a while? I mean, just weed out the ones that are insane so---"

"Meg," Dean cut in harshly and Sam snapped his mouth shut. There was not a lot he could say about that one. Even though Dean had tangled with some duzzies in the past, he never brought a demon home to meet the family.

"Well fuck," Sam sighed tiredly. _Here we go again._

"Yah," Dean echoed his sentiment.

There was silence for another moment, but Sam couldn't contain his disgust for long.

"Dude, a pink, teddy bear post-it note?"

His only reply was a pillow flung at his head.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own or make a profit from Supernatural.

Synchronicity

Chapter Two

The gray dawn light was starting to filter into the room by the time the boys had gotten showered and dressed. There had been no reason for them to go back to sleep after their early morning visitor and besides neither one of them wanted to hang around to see if she would opt for an encore.

Now normally, Dean's tried and true method of dealing with curses was to get the hell out of the way and let it roll on through, but seeing as it was him that was cursed that really wasn't an option. What they needed was a game plan. The last time a witch had hexed him he had been able to talk his way out of it, but Sarah had been a kind soul at heart, and really, it had just been a huge misunderstanding. Who knew she had a sister? Besides she had been more of a hedge witch than a true dyed in the wool sorceress.

However, he really didn't know anything about _Eliza—Lisa—Ella?_ Damn, this is was bad.

"Okay, I'm going to head over to the library and do some research. See if there are any recent instances of local men going missing or unexplained phenomena in the area. I might as well look up your girlfriend's genealogy while I'm at it. These things tend to run in families."

Sam tossed the towel he was using to dry his hair onto the bed and snatched up a green shirt. He whipped it over his head, shaking his hair out of his eyes when he was done.

"What's her name again?"

"Liza?"

Sam glanced up at his brother as he pulled on his jacket, his eyes narrowed.

"Liza?" he asked incredulously. "You mean you don't know?"

Dean shrugged, looking everywhere but at his brother.

"Well, you know. I had a few, she had a few. There wasn't that much talking involved."

"She seemed to remember your name, Dean. Your true name. Something that's necessary for a curse of this magnitude, and you just handed it out to her."

"Well, I guess she was paying closer attention than I was."

"You had SEX with her. You would think at some point you would want to know which name to moan out."

Dean cast Sam a wholly disgusted look. "Only women make noise during sex. Real men keep their mouths shut." It was clear by his tone, that Dean thought Sam was one of those men that not only moaned, but probably screamed, "Oh, God, yes," while he was at it.

Sam's face turned red, and Dean braced for the bitchery that was about to ensue.

"What is wrong with you Dean? Why do you feel the ever pressing need to nail everything with a heartbeat within fifty feet of you? There are so many, I'm surprised you even bother to hand out your last name anymore."

"People give out their full name every day," Dean spat in self-defense.

"Those people don't have the Supernatural hell bent on humping their leg. Hell, Dean, you're the one who taught me that." Sam was exasperated. He couldn't understand what was going on with his brother lately. Why he was so reckless.

Dean waved him away, turning around to check the clip in his gun.

"What is going on with you? Sam demanded. "Ever since---" He couldn't bring himself to say it. Even now, four months later he choked on the words.

_Dean was going to hell._

Sam shook his head, lost for a moment. He brushed his hand through his long, sandy hair, gathering his thoughts.

"After dad died you were downright scary. You were so intense, killing anything that looked at you wrong, but now it's like you don't even care, like life's one great big party and you're looking to score the best possible crack in town."

Dean snapped the clip back into his gun, and slammed it down onto the small wooden table by the door. He wished his brother would just drop it. Why couldn't he ever just let things be? It was Dean's life and he had a right to live it any way he chose for the remainder of it.

"Yeah, well, Sammy, we only get one life to live and I intend to cash in on all the perks I can before my bill comes due."

Sam's face darkened, a rare shimmer of dangerous intensity shinning through. Sam was passionate about a lot of things---finding the key to his destiny, avenging Jess and their dad, research and latte, but when it came down to his brother something switched on inside him that even Dean found a little unsettling at times. He flailed after Dean with the frenzy of a drowning man reaching for a preserver, never noticing how his actions might drown them both.

"That's not going to happen. I won't let it," Sam vowed in a low voice.

"Sam." Dean bit out his brother's name before stopping, switching tactics mid-speech. "What are you still doing here, dude?" he asked softly.

"What do you mean?"

"Old Yeller is dead. You're safe. You haven't had a vision since we ventilated him. You can go back to school, to your life. You can get back to normal, Sammy." Dean ignored the kick in the gut his words provoked. He didn't want Sam to leave. He didn't want to be left alone for his few remaining days, but he had to think ahead to the future. Sam's future. He had to make the break now, force Sam to go through the process of grieving so it wouldn't be such a shock when the demon collected.

Dean held out his hands in supplication, but to Sam it felt like his brother was pushing him away. Shoving him out the door with the order never to look back and _gee, while you're at it, forget that you even had a brother._

"No." Sam's reply was hard and resolute, matching the hard expression on his baby face that wasn't so babyish anymore. Life had been hard to Sam the last two years, forcing him to grow up in a way that few people but Dean could understand. His little brother was a man, and it was a very rare thing anymore to see the innocent kid he used to be.

"Sam." Dean tried again, but Sam cut him off with an angry bark.

"No!" Sam leapt forward without warning, pinning Dean to the nearby wall. Dean was surprised, but he didn't protest. He let his brother manhandle him, let him feel in control just this once. Sam would have to relearn to walk on his own, without someone to follow. Something he had mastered years before while away at college, but had forgotten how.

Sam wrapped both his ham-like fists into Dean's shirt refusing to let go even if Dean had struggled. "I'm not going to let this happen, Dean. If I have to march into hell to save your sorry ass then that's what I'll do. I'm never going to leave you again, Dean." Sam promised, and Dean felt something crack in his chest. It felt like his ribs were breaking, lacerating his heart and lungs.

Dean saw a flash of something dark in Sam's eyes and he swallowed down a dull sense of fear. Since the night he had been resurrected there had been a subtle shift in Sam's attitude. It was easier for him to kill, with shorter bouts of brooding afterwards. There were fewer drawn out conversations of what was right and wrong, sprinkled with liberal amounts of foul language.

Being raised by a transit father with no mother figure in sight, both men knew how to cuss a blue streak, but Sam's rough edges had been smoothed out by Jess, molding him into someone more acceptable in society, while with no one to polish his edges, Dean had no compunction expressing himself with more than a few four letter words. So usually, the F-word was Dean's sole domain, but lately he had noticed Sam using it as a verb, noun and an adjective.

Vaguely, Dean wondered if Sam still prayed every day. That confession, made in church months ago had shocked him, but yet made him feel oddly comfortable. Unable to pray for himself, he had relied on Sam to ask for forgiveness on his part for the countless necessary sins that he had committed over the years.

Dean looked away from his brother's eyes, shoving at him hard.

"Get off me."

Sam let him go, but kept staring at him with his emo face that demanded Dean's attention. Well, Dean wasn't going to surrender to it this time.

"We don't have time for this right now. Go to the library and I'll head over to her house and find out her name."

Sam was derailed from his rant, but he quickly righted himself onto a new bitch track.

"You can't just show up on her doorstep, Dean. She'll more than likely turn you into a frog this time."

"I know how to do my job, Sam. I'm not a fucking moron. I'm just going to check her mailbox for a name. Then I'll head down to the bar and see if there's anyone there after closing that knows anything about her."

Sam snapped his mouth shut, chastened for the moment. "Fine. Call me when you know something."

Sam slammed the door on the way out without waiting for Dean's reply. They were within walking distance of the town's library, having settled at a nearby motel a few days earlier after arriving to investigate a local haunting. It had turned out to be something minor, a soldier from the civil war who was searching for his homestead that no longer existed. He hadn't hurt anyone, but he had scared some local children pretty badly. It had taken a fair bit of research to figure what was going on since the death had occurred so long ago, and Sam had spent a great deal of time in the library doing just that.

Dean was scowling at the door when he felt the first twinges of tightness in his chest. He ignored it at first, tucking his gun into the waistband of his pants before shrugging on his dark-blue button down. His full lips thinned as the tightness intensified with every passing moment, showing no signs of abatement. He paused, spreading a wide hand across the center of his chest, massaging his heart through the layers of his thick muscles.

He sunk down onto the edge of the bed, a rare moment of panic overtaking him. The weakness in his chest felt exactly the same as it had when he had been electrocuted. Had the witch's curse reawakened his frailties? Was his heart failing again? Was he going to die there, in a crappy motel room while Sammy was still pissed at him?

His heart constricted, and he suddenly couldn't draw a complete breath. His body flushed hot, and then cold as sweat began to pour from his pores. His skin felt like it was stretched to the ripping point over his bones and his lungs were on fire. He slid off the bed, dropping to his knees. He clutched his chest wondering if this was what it felt like to have a heart attack while still achingly aware.

Dark spots began to form at the corners of his vision, and everything around him took on a surreal quality. The motel walls, painted a dark umber began to bleed red, and it felt like the earth was shaking beneath him. He cupped his palms over his face, attempting to block out the reeling sensation behind his eyes, trying to focus on the moment, but it was to no avail. There was a screaming in his head that wouldn't stop, and he realized that it was Sam's voice echoing in his mind.

He knew at that moment he was dying, and heartbreakingly it didn't bring him the peace that he thought it would; only the greatest sense of regret.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own or make a profit from Supernatural.

Thanks bunches to my beta Starliteyes for giving me her stamp of approval!

Synchronicity

Chapter Three

The edges of Dean's vision started to darken, compressing the bleary details of the room down to a small prick of light at the end of long tunnel. From a distance he could hear ragged, animalistic panting, and vaguely he recognized it as his own. He had no sense of connectedness with his own body, almost like his soul was already abandoning its shell, but his skin was hyper-sensitive to the smallest touch. He could feel a cold bead of sweat as it rolled down the back of his neck, leaving an icy trail in its wake, a fingerprint of death. The duality of being separate from himself, yet so aware the smallest sensation sent him into a panic that turned his stomach.

Through the haze of fear only one thought crystallized with any sense of clarity. Sam was going to be so pissed when he came back to the room to find him dead. Pissed and then devastated. Dean couldn't stop the grief that welled up inside of him. He knew what it felt like to hold your dead brother in your arms. He knew what it was like to look down onto the face that was the center of your world for nearly your entire life and feel loss so profound that it overcame you.

It hit him then. He was going to leave his brother alone and defenseless the world. He was going to fail in his duty as big brother and Sam would be the last Winchester standing. There would be no one left to protect him, to watch out for him. There would be no one to help him grieve, to wrap an arm around his heaving shoulders as he cried. And Sam would cry just like he had at Dad's funeral pyre.

Tears began to stream down Dean's face, and a shock of adrenaline shot him to his feet. He swayed drunkenly, almost falling face first into the shag carpet. He caught himself against the pine nightstand, racking his knuckles hard against the corner. The sharp crack of pain cleared his senses enough that he was able to stand upright without passing out.

He had to see Sam. He had to tell him that he was sorry, and that he loved him. He had to tell him that it was okay that he was dead, and that it was meant to be. He had to tell Sammy, that no matter what, he had to let Dean stay dead, because you shouldn't play with dead things.

He had broken that rule, and now Sam was the one who had to live with the consequences. Dean was sure that wherever Sam had been it hadn't been hell, but he couldn't say for sure what would happen next time around. Sammy wasn't the same as he had been, and Dean was sick with the thought that maybe he had destroyed something precious inside his brother when he resurrected him. Something that he had no right to fuck with in the first place.

He stumbled out of the hotel room, blindly making his way towards the library. The October morning was crisp and cold and his hard-won breath puffed out of his mouth in a cloud. He had to get to Sam and apologize to him before it was too late. He had to make amends. He wove an uneven path down the street, and with every step the tightness in his chest loosened, but the sensation of needing to find Sam, to be near him only intensified. His steps became steadier, and he raced down the street, wiping his wet face with the back of his arm.

He passed an alleyway and a fission of awareness raced down his spine. He slid to a stop, backing up to peer down the small side street that was lined with trash bins and wadded newspaper. Sam was slumped over against the sooty brick wall, his long legs folded beneath him, his head dangling to his chest.

"Sam!"

Dean barreled up to his brother, dropping down beside him to check for a pulse. Sam lolled his head back, and Dean flinched at the thin stream of blood that dripped from one nostril, trailing down his chin. Sam's eyes cracked open, and the bright, sliver of blue-green was nearly neon with his intense emotions. Dean thought he saw something flash through them, something unnatural, perhaps supernatural, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

Sam reached out a mammoth hand, curling his fist into the label of Dean's leather jacket so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"Dean," he croaked.

"What happened? Did someone jump you?" Dean took a moment to scan the alleyway suspiciously, looking for any hint of a threat.

"Heart."

Dean's wide eyes shot back to his brother as he rasped out the single word. Sam dragged on his jacket, pulling him closer. He tried to wrap one monkey arm around Dean's back, but Dean resisted the embrace.

"Please," Sam begged, nearly shattering Dean's cool reserve. He allowed his little brother to pull him into a tight hug, pressing their chests together. He wrapped his arms around Sam, fisting his hands into the folds of his tan jacket. He rested his head on Sam's shoulder, briefly closing his eyes, taking comfort that his little brother was alive. That _he_ himself was alive.

His heartbeat was pounding in his ears, strong and steady like the beat of a drum. Beneath the rhythm was a second beat. It was distant, an echo beneath an echo, but with every second it became stronger, synching up with his until they aligned together in a vigorous staccato.

_Two shall become one. One body._

Dean's eyes shot open with shock and he reacted on instinct.

"Get off me, you girl," his voice was shaky and he fought to bring it under control.

They parted. Sam's eyes clear and focused, Dean's heart unharmed.

"What the hell just happened?" Dean asked roughly, shoving himself away from Sam to stand. His brother braced his back against the wall, using it to steady himself as he stood. Dean watched as Sam wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve, smearing it across his lips. Another swipe left him relatively clean, but Dean could still see the crimson sheen of it in his mind.

"I don't know. I was walking, and my chest started to hurt. Then I started to think about you and how much I needed to get back to you, but by then I was too weak, and all I could do was stumble into the alley."

Dean looked away from Sam uncomfortably. More unsettled by Sam's description of events rather than the raw need he saw in his brother's eyes. He remembered the overwhelming sense of panic he felt when he left the hotel room. The absolute _need_ to be near Sam once again.

Sam peered at him suspiciously, knowing that he was hiding something from him.

"How did you know where to find me, Dean?"

Dean shoved his hands into his pocket, glancing behind him at the foot traffic that was passing back and forth at the mouth of the alley. He didn't see any sense in lying to Sam, but this was a whole other level of weird for them. And that was saying a _lot._

"I felt the same. I thought---" He grimaced and he rubbed his chest in much the same manner he had before they had visited LeGrange. Sam nodded in understanding, having felt the intense pain in his heart and fearing the worst.

"Then it was like you said. I just had to see you." The words were simple, and he shrugged dismissively, but both men heard the wealth of meaning underneath.

"Okay." Sam looked at his feet, his genius brain kicking into overdrive. "This has to be a symptom of the curse."

"Yah think, college boy?" Dean clapped Sam on the back, leading him out of the alley and onto the sidewalk. He was relieved that the emo moment had passed and they could get back to what they did best, hunting.

"We need to find out her name." Sam pulled out a piece of paper and pencil, jotting down some notes. Neither man mentioned what had just happened or what it potentially meant. Emotions on both sides were too raw to be poked at just yet. Instead they fell into a comfortable rhythm. Sam concentrated on the question and answer portion of the hunt, while Dean thought about his ammo stash and what he had that would more than likely kill a sorceress.

Wordlessly they fell in step together, walking back to the Impala. The first thing they needed to do was find their way back to her house, and after the events of the last few minutes they were unwilling to allow each other out of their sight. Never mind the fact that it may not even be physically possible to do so.

They slid into the car, and Dean pulled out, the route to the witch's house more easily remembered than her elusive name. They drove past the house once, watching for any shadowy movements through the windows. It was a small, white cottage with mint green trim, tucked away behind a picket fence overgrown with flowering plants. The neighborhood was old but tidy, and the trees that lined the street were tall and mature. Seeing nothing, they circled back, pulling up to the prettily painted mailbox to snake some of her mail.

Dean handed Sam a single envelope, leaving it to his brother to break yet another Federal law.

The brothers drove around the neighborhood, scouting the area to become more familiar with the landscape. They rolled past the bar where Dean's misadventure began, but it had long since closed down for the night and wouldn't open again until the afternoon.

"Coffee. Food. Library." Dean suggested.

"Yeah, definitely. It says her name is Elizabeth Montgomery."

Dean smacked his hand on the steering wheel as a flash of insight struck him.

"That's right, now I remember. Lizzy. I remember thinking about that stupid rhyme about Lizzie Borden."

Sam looked at him in askance for a moment before he realized what he was talking about. "Lizzie Borden took an axe and gave her mother forty whacks and when she saw what she had done she gave her father forty-one. That rhyme?"

"Yah, that's the one. Now I bet that chick's house has some serious paranormal issues. We should go check it out someday." Dean shot Sam a grin from the corner of his mouth as he drove.

Sam took the time to roll his eyes at Dean's ADD like ability to randomly jump subjects, but didn't reply. He glanced back at the envelope, staring at the black, block print on the front.

"I don't think so, Dean."

"What do you mean?" Dean steered the Impala towards the local diner that had decent coffee and WiFi. Now that they had a name they could do a little research and get something to eat while at it.

"If I remember correctly Elizabeth Montgomery was the name of the actress on _Bewitched_."

"The blonde? Samantha?"

"Yah, that's the one."

"She was hot. That nose thing she did was a total turn on."

"Dean."

How his brother managed to fill one word with so much exasperation, he had no idea. _Must be all those female hormones of his, _Dean thought with a long, suffering sigh.

"Besides, _I Dream of Genie_, was way hotter," Sam muttered and Dean grinned at him. _That's my boy!_

"Could be a coincidence." Dean parked the Impala in front of the diner, and eyed Sam.

"Yah, and demons and angels have tea together, eat cucumber sandwiches and exchange office gossip about their bosses." Sam pitched his voice into a prissy imitation of a girl that made Dean choke with laughter.

Still snickering, Dean shrugged as he got out of the car. "It's possible. You never know. A guy is a guy, no matter what he is. And if having tea is the way to get hot angel tail then a demon just might do it."

Sam followed him, slamming the car door as he exited. "Does everything have to revolve around sex with you?"

"Look, I'm just saying. It could be a coincidence."

"Because that happens all the time in our line of work."

Dean grinned in acknowledgement to the dripping sarcasm as they entered the diner. He automatically scanned the crowd as they walked through the room, mentally memorizing small details right down to the color of some cowboy's boots who was sitting at the counter drinking coffee. They took a seat in a corner booth, and Dean placed his back to the wall, facing the entrance.

Sam looked oblivious, but on the way into the diner he had memorized the license plates of every car in the parking lot, and he was pretty sure that the guy who passed them on the way out was an off duty cop. Luckily the guy was too tired after ending his night shift to take too much notice of them. Sam had flashed him his sincerest, _I'm just a kid,_ look that had reassured the man that he had nothing to be concerned about.

A tired looking woman, wearing a yellow uniform trimmed in pink, took their order, not bothering with pleasantries. Neither of them cared, mutually agreeing that six am was too early for perky small talk. They both requested coffee and Dean ordered bacon and eggs, while Sam ordered toast and oatmeal.

Dean grimaced at Sam after the waitress left.

"I don't see how you can eat that slop."

"I like to be healthy. I don't want my heart to explode when I'm thirty-five."

Sam's grimace matched Dean's as the words came out of his mouth and he rubbed a big hand across his chest. His face screwed up into his patented, _I want to have an emo moment_ expression, and Dean scrambled to distract him.

"Yah, well I guess I don't need to worry about that."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he had screwed up. _Oh, for fucksake, can't I ever say anything right?_

"Cause, you know." His words trailed off, and Sam gave him the most miserable hang-dog look ever at the reminder that Dean only had eight more months to live before the crossroads bitch took possession of his soul.

"Give me that." Dean snatched the envelope he had given Sam earlier, ready to open it now that he had shoved his foot down his throat. Sam snatched it back, his monkey arms having a longer reach than Dean's.

Sam kept his eyes steadily on the envelope as he tore it open to read the contents. Dean had erected a very thick, impenetrable buttress when it came to anything regarding his deal with the devil. No matter how often Sam tried to get him to talk about it, Dean shut him down until it felt like he was just ramming his head into a steel wall.

All Sam could think about was that four months had already passed, leaving him with only eight short more months to figure out how to save his brother or lose him forever. He swallowed down the coffee and acid that threatened to creep up his tight throat and forced himself to speak with some measure of calm, hiding his near panicked emotions behind his own steel wall.

"It's a credit card statement. Nothing much. Some charges for shoes and clothing."

"Keep it. We might need it later."

They ate their breakfast while Sam scrolled through the internet, but a name search only pulled up biographies of the actress Elizabeth Montgomery, not the mysterious woman they were investigating.

"Can you hack the credit card database? Find a previous address or something?" Dean asked, waving his fork in Sam's direction, dropping some of his speared scrambled eggs onto the table.

"Yah, but that will take a while. It would be easier if Ash was here."

Both men fell into a moment of silence as they thought about the lives lost at the Roadhouse the night of the fire. Yeah, Ash had been a freak. A crazy smart, freak genius, but he didn't deserve to die.

"We should call Bobby. He might know how to break this curse if we can't talk her into dispelling it." Sam's tone was subdued, and it made Dean uncomfortable. Then again, everything that reminded him of Sam dying made him _damn_ uncomfortable.

"Dude, remember the last time this happened?" he asked, trying to distract his brother with levity.

Sam rolled his eyes up from the laptop screen to glare at him.

"How could I forget? You shot me with a crossbow."

"Well, you shouldn't have gotten between me and my target."

"You shouldn't have fucked both sisters and gotten involved in their little rivalry."

"How many times do I have to tell you Sam? I didn't know they were sisters."

"How many times do I have to tell you not to drink strange potions? And more importantly, you _shot_ me." Sam faced him, full of indignation.

"Yah, like you're the only one who can say that." Dean cast him a look full of underlying meaning that shut Sam up with a snap, his face twisted in regret.

Dean sighed heavily. "Dude, she spiked my beer. How was I to know that throwing back a few would get me turned into Sarah's little lap dog? It was a good thing you were there to stop me from killing her sister though. It just sucks that you had to put yourself in the way to do it. Besides if you hadn't been there to negotiate a temporary cease fire between the two I still might be down in Texas playing pony to her cowgirl."

A fleeting frown curved on Sam's lips as the imagine of his brother on his hands and knees naked except for a pair of cowboy boots while the hedge witch Sarah rode him bare back invaded his mind. He chuckled hesitantly, feeling vaguely uneasy as he tucked away the laptop while Dean paid the bill.

They decided to walk across the street to the library where they spent several hours researching the local newspapers for any recent disappearances or oddities. The only thing the brothers found were articles they had already read about the local haunting. There was nothing to suggest that the area was being besieged by witchcraft, which meant that Lizzy had been laying low and behaving until Dean had to gone and pissed her off.

By the time they had finished up it was two in the afternoon, and the tavern where Dean had met Lizzy would undoubtedly be open for the late lunch rush. They headed over, Dean taking the lead when they entered the bar. The bartender wasn't the same man from the night before, but he figured it was worth a shot asking about Lizzy.

"US Marshals." They simultaneously flashed the badges at the bewildered man who blinked at them, his gaze panning between them.

"Wow, you two been partners for a while, huh?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, brows furling in subtle confusion.

"Why do you say that?" Dean asked.

The bartender pointed at them, his hand swishing back and forth between them.

"Cause, you know. You two move, like as one or something."

They stared at him deadpan, before Sam cleared his throat. "We're looking for some information on Elizabeth Montgomery. You might know her as Lizzy."

"Lizzy? Sure I know her." The bartender was short, topping off at five seven and he barely looked old enough to drink much less serve alcohol, but Sam supposed he didn't look old enough to be a US Marshal either. Flash a badge though, and people will believe anything you tell them.

"What can you tell us about her?" Dean licked his lips, wondering if asking for a beer would blow his cover.

"Nothing much. She showed up about six months ago. Doesn't work as far as I know. Hangs out here most nights."

"Does she have any family in the area? Friends, perhaps?" Sam chimed in, flashing his dewy, trustworthy eyes.

The bartender shifted, his eyes rolling to the side as he thought over Sam's question. "I never heard her mention anything about family, and she's kind of a loner."

"Thanks, man." Dean finished, knowing that they weren't going to get anything else out of the guy.

"Hey, why do want to know about Lizzy?"

"That's our business, friend." Sam replied coldly, his puppy dog eyes melting away into seriousness.

"Yah, sure. Okay." The guy said nervously before turning away to fill the waitress's drink order.

Dean shot Sam a look, but otherwise ignored his brother.

They interviewed a few more people, but they all pretty much had the same thing to say. Lizzy had shown up six months prior, completely out of the blue. No one knew where she had come from and she had made no new friends while in town. It was a total dead end.

"It's like she never existed before coming here," Sam muttered as he glared out the windshield from the passenger side of the Impala.

"Maybe she didn't. Maybe she's like some sort of Fairy or sumthin'. Comin' over here to cause some trouble before high tailing it back to la la land."

"I think it's more likely that she's human. She probably moves around a lot using an alias to keep from getting caught." Neither brother wanted to meditate on the similarities between their lifestyle and the witch's.

Dean shrugged and started the Impala. It came to life with a familiar roar and Dean instantly felt relaxed as the powerful vehicle rumbled beneath him.

"Doesn't matter. The only way to get this done is to go straight to the source."

Sam didn't like it, but Dean was right. Their investigation had turned up no leads and a quick call to Bobby had revealed that the only thing that could break a sorceress's curse was the witch herself.

They parked the Impala around the corner of Lizzy's house at dusk. They had put together a couple of charms that were supposed to deflect magic, but they had little faith in their effectiveness.

They loaded their shotguns with rock salt, knowing that a blast wouldn't kill her, but it would sting like a mother. A wicked sneer twisted Dean's upper lip at that thought. He would rather put a silver bullet through her cold heart, but they needed her alive, at least until the curse was broken.

They stuck to the shadows, approaching her small cottage from the back. They slipped over the fence, hunching behind the bushes. The house was dark, but since it was early evening they hoped that she was out at the bar and not asleep yet. They had both decided the best way to get information on Lizzy was to go through her things before they confronted her. Maybe if they were lucky they could find a Book of Shadows or anything that would give them leverage over her.

They crossed the small yard quickly, Dean flipping open his pocket knife as they went. A quick glance told them that the house wasn't wired for an alarm and was easy pickings. Dean slid his knife under the window, flipping the lock that held it closed.

He pushed up the window, his shoulders and biceps bulging when it stuck for a minute. Finally, decades of old paint cracked and the window slid open with a loud creak. Both men froze, listening intently for soft foot falls in the house, but there was only silence. They belly slid into the room, realizing instantly that something was wrong.

The room that they entered was completely devoid of possessions except for a few dust bunnies in the corner. Dean and Sam exchanged a measuring look before searching the rest of the house. Every room was barren, as if no one had ever lived there. There weren't even any indentation marks in the carpet where heavy furniture had sat.

"Are you sure that this is the right house?" asked Sam, his face drawn in confusion.

Dean's expression matched his, but it was quickly melting away into nervousness.

"Yah, I'm sure."

"What the hell, Dean?" Sam's voice raised a little and Dean knew he was getting nervous as well.

"I don't know, but it isn't good. She's cleared out."

"I can see that, but to where?"

"Fuck if I know, Sam. Antarctica, maybe."

"Not funny, Dean."

"No shit." Dean took one last look, concealing the shivers of dread that raced down his spine from Sam. "We gotta shag ass out of here."

Something was wrong, and Dean couldn't get over the lingering sense that he had walked straight into a trap. He wanted out of the witch's lair, and out of the back-ass town while he was at it. Sam didn't argue as they made their way back to the Impala, stowing their weapons in the trunk before sliding into the front seat. Always ready to bail at a moment's notice they didn't need to go back to the hotel to pack their stuff. By the time they hit the city line, Dean was already doing eighty.

They drove in silence for about a half an hour when suddenly Dean jerked the wheel to the right. They hit the gravel, fishtailing to a stop on the side of the road. He slammed the Impala into park, breathing heavily though his nose as he switched off the car. For a minute the only thing that could be heard was his heavy breathing and the rhythmic ticking of the engine as it cooled.

"Get out of the car, Sam."

"What are we doing?"

"Stop arguing with me and just do it.

Sam shot him a glare, but Dean ignored it as he climbed out of the car. Sam followed him, slamming the Impala's door for good measure.

They were parked next to a large open field that was drenched in light from the full moon that had risen. Dean waded out into the waist deep grass, Sam trudging along beside him. The night had already cooled after the mild warmth of the day and dew settled onto the long, green blades. It dampened their jeans, chilling their legs, but they ignored the discomfort as they drew towards the center of the meadow.

"We have to know how bad this is." Dean's voice was soft, but it was filled with trepidation.

Sam nodded, already understanding what his brother wanted. He veered off to the left, while Dean went right. They walked away from each other, hearts clenching and lungs failing every step of the way.

They walked until they couldn't stand the pressure any longer, until the pain and panic of separation nearly crushed them. They spun around, jogging quickly back to each other, meeting in the center of the field. They stood side by side, their arms pressed so tightly together from elbow to shoulder that they could feel their blood thrumming beneath their skins. They hovered like that, the anxiety of being apart nearly forcing them top of each other as their hearts synched up once again.

Both brothers were panting heavily and Sam could feel Dean's moist breath as it feathered against the hollow of his neck. _Breath of life,_ he thought distantly, knowing that someday the familiar sound of Dean's breathing might disappear forever. He could feel the heat radiating off Dean's body, the increase in temperature due to adrenaline. Dean's body heat always spiked when he was getting ready to hunt or fight, the excitement of it warmed his blood, flushing his skin. Sam recognized the subtle nuances of Dean's physiology like he recognized his own face in the mirror.

Or he used to. Now when he glanced in the mirror, he saw something different---a shadow that was gathering in the deepest pits of his eyes. He barely even looked anymore, using Dean as his mirror instead. He used Dean's unwavering faith in him to guide his actions, judging himself by the reflection he saw in his brother's eyes.

Sam didn't talk about it. Just like Dean didn't talk about dying in eight months. They both had something to hide from each other, secrets that were needed in order to maintain a sense of normality. Sam wasn't sure what Dean was hiding, but he could guess---guilt, regret and worst of all, relief. Relief that he wasn't going to be the last man standing in a world that could not see him past the masks he wore. Dean's greatest fear was to lose everyone that he loved, to fail them when they needed him the most. The demon bitch had solved that for him. If he was dead there was no chance for disappointment or heartbreak. As an added bonus, he got to die as a hero, making the ultimate sacrifice to save his little brother. It was a classic Dean way to die, going out in his own idealized blaze of glory.

Sam tried not to be angry at Dean for that, for his selfishness in believing that it was acceptable for him to die, but not for Sam. No matter how Sam tried, there was no dispelling it. The rage remained, simmering just beneath the surface---out of bounds—out of touch. And there it would remain for as long as they didn't talk.

Sam had his own secrets to keep, so he allowed the silence to drag on between them. The unthinkable was happening to him, the darkside was calling in a sing-song siren's voice that was impossible not to hear. Late at night, when their hotel room was dark and the traffic from the nearby freeway had dulled to a minute roar, he could hear it whispering to him. It egged him on, told him things he didn't want to know, showed him things he didn't want to see. To escape the wickedness, he lost himself in his mind, sinking deep, down where only his most primal self existed. Nightly he fell into a light meditative stupor that left him exhausted in the morning, but his soul still relatively intact.

He thought about telling Dean, enlisting his big brother's help, but as they stood shoulder to shoulder in the dark night, Sam knew that it wouldn't be possible. Dean unswerving belief that his little brother couldn't possibly turn evil had hampered their ability to deal with the very problem that was threatening them. There was no point in talking to Dean, because for Dean there was no problem.

So they erected their walls, refusing the peer over the battlements to the other side for fear of what they might see. Sam often wondered how it was possible for two people to be so incredibly close physically, understanding each other down to the subtlest facial tick, but so emotionally separate that having a conversation might actually result in bloodshed.

A thin cloud floated over the fat moon, and the shadows around them deepened. An entire lifetime spent in the dark made them more creature than human. Light to them was inconsequential, and the darkness was welcome.

They didn't speak, couldn't find the words to express themselves. As one, they turned to walk back to the Impala, sliding silently into the front seat. They stared out into the lonely darkness that surrounded them, feeling safe yet threatened at the same time.

"What do you think? Fifty meters?" Sam asked without looking at his brother. He suddenly found the endless night stretching out before him to be of keen interest. In the distance, above the jagged horizon of pine trees, he could see the twinkling of stars.

"Maybe sixty if we pushed it," Dean replied tonelessly, staring out into the same deep night.

"This is bad, Dean." Sam's voice pitched, and Dean swallowed in response, feeling his own turmoil boiling to the surface.

"Bad? This is fucking catastrophic," Dean ground out in a brittle voice, wrapping his hands around the steering wheel, his fingers tightening until his knuckles bleached white.

They ceased to speak, each man contemplating the ramifications of being physically bound to one another. It was impossible for them to be separated by more than fifty meters without collapsing, and maybe even dying. Their bodies were linked together as one. A single entity that needed the other to live, like a heart needs blood or lungs need air. They were cursed to walk as one until the next Harvest Moon, a full year away.

Forced proximity wasn't even the worst of their problems. Dean's eyes slid to the side, golden, green hidden beneath a veil of shadowy lashes as he covertly watched his little brother.

What, he wondered, would happen to Sam in eight months if they couldn't break the curse, and Dean was pulled into Hell?


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from Supernatural.

Thanks so much to Starliteyes for her wonderful beta skills!

Synchronicity

Chapter Four

Dean lay as motionless as possible on his stomach, his hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of his bowie knife. His eyes were cracked as he tried to track the sound that had awoken him.

He and Sam had finally stopped at a motel outside Bozeman, Montana nearly a day and a half since high tailing it out of the town where Lizzy had laid her whammy on them. They were on their way to see Bobby, but were too exhausted to continue driving and had to stop at a dive beside the Interstate. They were both dead tired, and had fallen into their beds without a word.

A quick glance at the red glare of the digital clock told Dean that they had been asleep for barely an hour when a soft rustling sound had jerked him out of unconsciousness. He could see the vague outline of his brother in the next bed, and the doorframe of the bathroom just beyond that, but everything else in the room was immersed in shadows.

Dean subtly lifted his head off the pillow, being sure that the movement was too imperceptible to be noticed by a possible assailant. As soon as he moved the rustling stilled, and Dean lifted his head further from the pillow to sweep his cold, assessing gaze around the room. He could see nothing out of the ordinary, and honestly the noise had been muffled. It could have come from the adjoining room.

He rested his head back on his pancake-thin pillow, shoving his arm beneath him to try to give himself a little more lift. He kept his hand clenched around the hilt of his knife as a precaution, and drifted back to sleep.

Dreams came quickly on the heels of unconsciousness. Dean knew that he was dreaming, even as he surrendered to it. He was in a cavernous room, smothered in darkness. It streamed down his throat and into his nose. It seeped into his pores, strangling him with its oily weight. Surrounding him was the insidious slithering of snakes writhing around each other in a ball, just waiting for the right moment to strike. Behind him, deep in the darkness he could sense a presence of something elementally evil. A thing far more wicked than anything he had ever come across before.

Dean snapped awake, his brow bathed in sweat. He slanted a glance at the clock, hissing when he realized that barely twenty minutes had passed since the last time he had awoken. He heard a soft shuffling, similar to the slithering in his dreams, from somewhere in the room and he tensed. He concentrated on the sound, trying to pinpoint it. The noise didn't seem to come from any one corner of the room, but from all around him. The longer he listened, the more convinced he was that the noise wasn't in the room, but in the walls themselves.

He swept the covers back, both bare feet hitting the ground simultaneously. He clicked on the lamp perched on the nightstand that was nestled between the two beds, unconcerned that he woke Sam doing so.

"What the hell, Dean?" Sam snapped groggily from beneath he covers where he retreated from the bright glare of light.

"Can't you hear that?" Dean demanded as he paced the length of the room, pausing to press his ear to the wall.

"Hear what?" All traces of sleepiness were gone. Dean was on high alert and Sam's own well-honed instincts sharpened in response.

"That noise."

Sam hauled himself out of bed, cocking his head to the side. He listened hard, but all he heard was the sound of late night traffic on the freeway. Dean was pressed against the far wall, his knife tightly clenched in his hand. Sam felt his own fingers twitch with the need to arm himself.

"I don't hear anything, Dean."

Dean drew back from the wall, his brows creased in consternation. Now that he had gotten up from bed he couldn't hear anything either. Whatever it was, his movements had quieted it.

"It was like, in the walls or something."

Sam turned to face the wall he was nearest to. It wasn't anything special. It was covered with crappy green wallpaper decorated with small white flowers that looked like it had been there since the eighties. He moved closer, tapping on the wall with his fingertips.

"What did it sound like?" Sam asked seriously. Dean could be a total ass when it came to things like women and hustling, but he knew how to do his job, and Sam trusted him.

"I don't know. Kinda like scurrying I guess."

Sam drew back from the wall in disgust.

"Gross. You mean like mice?" Both Sam and Dean were in the center of the room now, grimacing at the walls.

"Dude, it would have to be a damn huge nest to make that much noise. Besides it sounded more like bugs or something."

"Like cockroaches?"

Dean's disgusted look was dropkicked into revolted at the thought of thousands of shiny, reddish-black bugs writhing around in the walls just waiting for the light to switch off so they could flood out and stream into their open mouths and noses.

"That's it. We're out of here."

Sam didn't have to be told twice. Mice he could deal with, but cockroaches were on the _no fucking way in hell_ list.

They gathered up their duffels, having nothing to pack since they had fallen into bed without unloading anything. Dean sheathed his knife and shoved it into his bag, while Sam tugged on his shoes.

"I'll meet you outside." Dean said as he opened the front door. He was looking at Sam for confirmation when two sharp prongs jabbed him squarely in the chest and released fifty thousand volts of electricity into his body.

Sam dropped his shoes and was moving towards Dean before his body even hit the floor. The doorway was suddenly flooded with light, and someone was yelling at him to get down. Sam saw the barrel of a riot gun undoubtedly loaded with impact rounds pointed at his chest and he skidded to a stop. Dean was still convulsing on the ground when Sam dropped to his knees, his hands behind his head.

Someone entered the room and pointed a pistol at Sam's head, while another man knelt down to check Dean's pulse. The light from the parking lot backlit the men, making it impossible for Sam to see their features. All he could see was their shadowy forms as they moved around the room.

"He's fine. He should wake up in a minute," the man announced and flipped Dean over onto his stomach so he could zip tie his hands behind him.

Sam felt instantaneous relief flood through him at the man's words, but it did nothing to alleviate his fury. When he looked up at the man holding the gun, there was nothing but murder in his eyes.

"You shouldn't have done that." Sam's voice was deep with deadly promise, and the man felt something sinister slide down his spine.

"Why's that, son?"

The second man finished securing Dean and circled around to get behind Sam. There was something about the kneeling man that made him uneasy, and he was very cautious when taking Sam's wrists to tie them.

"Because my brother really hates to be electrocuted."

The man with the gun chuckled a bit, and it was then that Sam was able to catch a glint of metal on his belt. A gold star was clipped to man's gun belt, proclaiming him to be a Gallatin County Sheriff.

"Somehow, boy, I think that's the least of you and your brother's problems. You're under arrest for felony flight from custody, three counts of first degree murder, and kidnapping. Do I need to go on, Winchester?"

"I didn't do those things," Sam spat out defensively. He was getting really tired of getting accused of crimes that he didn't commit. He and his brother were not criminals. They were heroes. The just occasionally had to break some laws to do that. But they never, ever murdered anyone.

"No? Well then I guess that means that you're Sam and not Dean. You're under arrest for felony flight from custody, suspicion of murder and armed robbery."

Sam's lips tightened into a thin line as the Sheriff read him his rights. Dean moaned, but quickly stilled. Sam knew that his brother had regained full consciousness and was playing possum until he understood the gravity of their current situation.

A strong hand beneath his arm hauled him to his feet, and he watched as someone did the same for Dean. His brother was quick to decide that it was better to walk under his own steam rather than to be dragged out into the parking lot and he stood as well. In the darkness of the room their eyes met, both of them wearing identical looks of terror.

Even though they were being led by two deputies each, they tried their best to stay as close as possible to each other. Fifty meters, roughly half the length of a football field, was looking like pretty damn short of a distance right about now, especially if they were shoved into different vehicles. And if they ended up in prison, again? They wouldn't even make it through processing without one of them having a heart attack.

The parking lot of the motel was overflowing with patrol cars and officers. Red and blue lights flashed, and Dean had to wonder how they had all parked out front of their window without waking them up. It looked like every damn lawman in the county had shown up.

He was fairly sure the rustling sound he had heard couldn't have been the cops, but who knew? Maybe they were evacuating nearby rooms in case of a shootout. It seemed logical. Dean bet he must have surprised the hell out of the guy who jabbed him with the taser when he suddenly opened the door like he did. The explanation that the cops caused the noise he heard seemed reasonable, but it still didn't sit well with him. The sound had seemed evil somehow-- supernatural and in no way mundane.

Sam and Dean were shoulder- to- shoulder now as they were hustled across the pavement towards several parked cruisers.

"How did they know we were here?" Sam whispered, but Dean had no problem hearing him. Sometimes he thought Sam could be in the other room whispering to a church mouse and he would still be able to hear him. He was that attuned to his little brother.

Dean scanned the lot, catching sight of the motel receptionist that had checked them in. She was talking animatedly to a tall man who was obviously in charge of the whole operation. It was clear by the familiar way that she touched his arm that they were well acquainted.

Dean nudged Sam's shoulder and nodded over to the scene. Sam watched them for a moment, eyes narrowed.

"Ten bucks says that Hendrickson has sent out wanted posters to every police department in the U.S. She probably recognized us and called the Sheriff," Sam spat. The seriousness of the situation had completely eroded his good nature. At the moment he would like nothing better to throttle the woman who had turned them in, girl or not.

"Sorry, Sammy. I don't take bets that I have no chance of winning." Dean tried to lighten the mood, but he knew that it was useless. He was used to his brother's pissy-ness, but it was the underlying edge of violence lately that was starting to unnerve him.

The deputies that were manhandling them pushed them up against a cruiser face first. They heard the rear door open and then Dean was yanked away.

"No!" Sam shouted and bucked away from the vehicle. The two deputies that were holding him shoved him back and he felt the cool press of a nightstick against the back of his neck. Dean disappeared into the backseat and soon after Sam was shoved in beside him.

Their panic stilled, but it was still waiting just beneath their skin. They were safe for the moment, but what would happen once they got the police station?

"We are so screwed," Dean muttered under his breath, and Sam could only nod in agreement.


	5. Chapter 5

Many thanks to Starliteyes who not only edited this for me, but gave me the wonderful prompt for this chapter. Without her I would have been stuck indefinitely!

Synchronicity

Chapter Five

"Sheriff, you've got to see this." The young deputy motions his boss over to the bank of grainy black and white monitors. Only two of the four televisions were on since only two detainee rooms, which share the same wall, are occupied at the moment.

The Sheriff Warren stands over deputy Franks, who's sitting in the chair monitoring the prisoners. The first thing the older man notices is that the two prisoners are standing against the wall, completely unsupervised.

"Why aren't those boys handcuffed to their tables?" Sheriff Warren barks. He's fit for his age, a body toughened by twenty years of service and a lifetime of cattle ranching. His thick mustache, graying with age, droops over his upper lip. The rest of his face is clean shaven and leathery from years of being outdoors. His blue eyes are crystal sharp and clearly don't miss much.

"They uncuffed themselves nearly the instant the officers left them alone in their rooms."

"What do you mean they uncuffed themselves?"

"Beats the hell out of me, Sir. One minute they're chained to the table, the next they're up against the wall." Deputy Franks shrugs, trying to look older than his twenty-something years. He'd been hired on just that year and he was eager to make a good impression with his boss.

"Sir, that's not the weird part though."

"What'd ya mean?"

"Well, look at them, Sir."

The Sheriff bends down to peer closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied the monitors. The youngest brother is leaning against his wall, his shoulders hunched over with his hands shoved into his front pockets. He's standing with such unconcerned nonchalance that it puts the Sheriff's teeth on edge.

The older boy has his foot braced against his wall, his knee kicked out while he examines his cuticles. If he projected anymore attitude he was liable to get his ass slung into jail for misdemeanor dumbassness, as the Sheriff liked to say when he threw the local college kids into the drunk tank for a couple hours. Not that the man didn't have enough felonies stacked up on his sheet to get him thrown into prison for the rest of his natural born life.

The Sheriff cuts the young deputy an exasperated glare that makes the boy's ears heat up. The only thing wrong he can see with this picture was that both men are standing free as birds when they should be hogtied.

"They're standing against the same wall in the exact same spot. It's almost like they know where the other one is at even though they can't see each other. Don't you think that's weird?"

"Son, a good lawman strikes the word 'weird' from his vocabulary. There is nothing in this world that can't be explained away by science and good old fashion police work."

The Sheriff's blue gaze hardens and the deputy looks away hurriedly. "Yes, Sir," he chimes while still watching the brothers on his monitor.

The Sherriff doesn't spare the boy another look, and turns to speak to one of his more seasoned deputies instead.

"I got a hold of that suit, Hendrickson. He's as excited as a jumping bean in a pot of coffee. He'll be up here in the morning. 'Till then we need to process these assholes for the night."

Deputy Mollenhoff nods and jots down some notes on his clipboard.

"You be careful now. These boys are dangerous and they have a knack for squirming their little butts out of trouble. I want two deputies on each of them at all times. That FBI fella made it sound like they were the damn Houdini twins or sumthin'. I don't want this department to be another in a long line of embarrassed jackasses that let them get away."

"Yes, Sir," the deputy snaps in agreement.

Sheriff Warren glances back at the monitors, thinking for just a moment that his youngest deputy was right. Those two boys are definitely weird.

"Process the oldest one first. He's the most dangerous. Leave the youngest to stew a bit."

Deputy Mollenhoff spins on his heel and exits the room, collecting another officer to assist him. The Sheriff retreats to his office, leaving Franks to keep a close eye on the youngest while Dean is being processed in the bull pen. Franks watches as the deputies try to remove Dean from the interrogation room. There's quite a lot of cursing and threats that would make a sailor turn red as the officers back the belligerent man into a corner. Franks tenses up, expecting guns to be drawn at any second, but instead Mollenhoff manages to mace Dean while his partner distracts him with a little Kansas City shuffle.

They catch him off guard long enough to get his hands cuffed, but Dean bounces back from the assault with the proficiency of a guy who's been trained to ignore the burn in his eyes and he glares ugly, red daggers at the deputies he's sandwiched between.

They drag him out the door, his heels scrapping the floor the entire time. A flicker of movement on the other screen catches Franks' eye. Sam Winchester is sliding along the wall keeping pace with his brother on the other side, pure panic pouring over his young face.

Franks knows that the rooms are soundproof, but he thinks maybe they need checking because it's pretty obvious to him that Sam knows what's happening to his brother. Dean and the deputies are out of sight now, and Franks is left to watch Sam. He's facing the corner near the door his fingernails scraping the paint like a desperate animal in a cage. Franks shifts nervously wondering if he should call the Sheriff when the boy sinks to the ground, his knees to his chest, his head cradled in his folded arms.

He stays like that for about twenty minutes, and Franks figures that Dean is about finished with processing and will be escorted across the quad to the detention center soon. Once done, the deputies will be back to collect Sam and then he'll be their problem.

Right about then Sam collapses to the side, his whole body convulsing, long jerky legs kicking the wall and his head bouncing on the slab floor. Franks grabs the phone, yelling at the guys on the other end that they better get their asses in gear and check on the boy before he chokes on his tongue.

Even though the monitor's clarity is crappy, he can see foam dripping out of the boy's mouth like he's rabid or something. He wonders if this is some sort of escape attempt and if whacking the back of his head on the painted cement like an overripe melon is part of the plan.

Franks calls the Sheriff, fielding a call on his radio at the same time. Dean Winchester has collapsed in the center of the quad, his entire body convulsing in seizures. The deputy is freaked enough that he's screaming for a goddamn ambulance right the fuck now, and Franks watches Sam thinking that it's not such a bad idea, because escape or not the human body was not meant to twist that way.

The Sheriff is shouting in the background and Franks is making the call to dispatch for a bus. They respond in two minutes flat and the Sheriff is still freaking, but the EMTs are insisting that they don't have a pulse on either brother and no way can that be faked.

They only got one ambulance, but it fits two gurneys and the EMTs are rolling the Winchesters up to the back of the bus when one starts yelling that he's got a pulse. They do a double-take on the other brother and find a BP that's thready.

They are trying to load up the brothers while fending off the Sheriffs insistence that a deputy goes with. There isn't enough room in the ambulance for two EMTs and their patients much less for another guy in the mix. It's finally decided that the brothers will get cuffed to the metal side rail of the gurneys by the wrist and the deputies will follow behind.

Before the double doors slam shut on the bus Franks thinks he sees the older boy snake his hand out to wrap around the younger's wrist, but he can't say for sure.

8888

Dean has to touch Sam. He has to press his fingertips to his little brother's pulse and make sure his heart is still beating. The last thing he remembered was crossing the snow-covered quad, his heart pounding hammer-hard in his chest and panic screaming in his brain, when suddenly the world went blinding white with pain. His last thought before he passed out was that Sam was somewhere curled up and bleeding, dying on the ground and Dean couldn't get to him. Dean never hated cops more than he did at that precise moment.

The next thing he knew his heart was beating a weak, but steady rhythm and he could _feel_ Sam next to him, the same way he could _feel_ him through the wall of the interrogation room. There's a flashing red light and a screaming siren digging through his brain, but the God-awful racket helps him to shake off his daze and to focus. He and Sam have been loaded, side by side in an ambulance, oxygen masks forced over their faces.

It is a tight fit and there's an EMT hovering at their heads instead of beside them, monitoring their vitals, while yelling something to his partner who was driving about an unprecedented simultaneous cardiac infarction.

_What the fuck ever._

Dean can hear a second siren beneath the ambulance's wail and he realizes now that the flashing lights are coming from outside and behind. A police cruiser is keeping pace with them, and Dean figures he's got about three minutes to get them out of this mess before they both end up on the permanent side of dead.

He squeezes Sam's wrist, gratified when he feels a flutter of muscles beneath his fingertips that communicates to him that his little brother is conscious and aware. It takes him about two seconds to figure out that he's cuffed to the gurney and another twenty-five to surreptitiously pick the lock with a straightened paperclip. Next to him he feels Sam doing the same.

After Green River, Sam bought a box of the handy little suckers and inserted them into the cuffs of all their jackets and long-sleeved shirts. He even pushed them into the hems of their jeans just in case. The tricky little maneuver came in handy, but it made a hell of a clatter when they did the laundry.

Once free, he reaches over his head, grabs the EMT by the belt loops and sends him head first into Sam's lap. His little brother doesn't miss a beat and wraps his freakishly long limbs around the guy in a full body squeeze. With no time to waste and trusting his brother to take care of the guy, he flips off the gurney landing in the cab next to the driver. They guy is so startled that he takes his foot off the gas, and the bus slows to a manageable speed. Dean punches him hard enough across the temple to daze the guy, and hauls him out of the seat, throwing him against the passenger door. All without crashing, cause he's awesome like that.

Briefly he thinks that this all shouldn't be possible. He and Sam had just suffered through severe heart attacks. They shouldn't be able to bounce around, wrestling EMTs and jacking ambulances, but they were, and they weren't even slowing down. In fact, it seems to Dean that they have never been more on top of their game.

He snags the wheel, stomping on the gas just in time to hear whipping wind and a loud crash from the back of the bus.

"Sam?" Dean asks, though he's not too concerned.

"Gonna take care of the cops on our tail. Get ready to lose them."

Dean doesn't reply, but he doesn't need too. He hears a rattle from the back then the squeal of tires and the impact of steel on glass. Above the wind, Dean can hear Sam's wince of sympathy. Just for a second he thinks that shouldn't be possible, but he quickly dismisses it.

"Dude?" It's a question that only Sam can decipher.

"Threw the gurney at them."

Dean chuckles and wrenches the wheel to the left, ducking down a narrow street. He hears more crashing from the back that sounds suspiciously like a body hitting the wall.

"Dean!" Sam growls.

"Sorry," Dean sings out contritely, his grin anything but.

He flips off the siren and maneuvers the ambulance quickly down back streets, knowing that there's already a fleet of cops looking for them. He pulls in behind a dark building, slamming the ambulance into park. He takes the time to cuff the still dazed EMT to the door, trashes the CB and exits out the back. He notices that Sam has cuffed the other guy to the metal rails under the driver's seat, though he needn't bother since he's out cold.

Sam is waiting for him in the alley, a tackle box-sized first aid kit swinging from his hand. Dean raises his eyebrow in question and Sam shrugs back.

"Might as well stock up."

Dean can't argue with his logic and they turn as one to hoof it out of the alley. Dean takes the lead and gets about a street over before Sam catches on.

"Dude, we can't go back to the motel."

"I'm not leaving my baby to be pawed by those asshole cops."

"Dean, we can come back for the Impala later, but right now we have to get out of town and lay low."

Dean grinds his teeth and keeps going.

"And when they pop the trunk? What then, Sam?"

Sam sighs and Dean hunches his shoulders against the sound.

"They probably already have."

Dean swings back to his brother, his face a hard mask of determination.

"Yeah, but they'll wait until its back at the impound before they'll remove anything. Everything we have is in there, Sam. Dad's journal, our guns. Everything. We hadn't even bothered to haul our duffels into the room we were so tired."

Sam sighs again, and Dean takes it as assent. They double-time it back to the motel, sliding along the far wall to peer around the corner. The Impala is where they left it, her trunk popped and her doors wide open. Dean has to swallow down his rage at the blatant proof that his baby has been violated and Sam looks at him funny even though he hasn't made a sound.

One deputy has been left as a guard, the Sheriff obviously feeling that they wouldn't be stupid enough to try and retrieve the vehicle. Sam has to roll his eyes at that. Apparently the cops hadn't read their background thoroughly enough. Dean never left town without his baby.

The guy's back is to them and he's monitoring his handheld radio pretty intensely. Sam hands off the first aid kit to Dean, and they nod to each other as they split up. Dean creeps up to the Impala while Sam stalks the unsuspecting cop.

As he nears he can hear the chatter on the radio, and his features tighten at the mention of roadblocks going up around the town. Striking with snake-like speed Sam wraps his thick muscle-laden forearm around the guy's throat, applying enough pressure to choke him out.

The deputy is police trained, but he's no match for a Winchester and thirty seconds later Sam is laying him out on the asphalt and snatching up his radio. Sam runs back to the car, which Dean has already hotwired since his keys had been confiscated. Sam slams the trunk closed, noting that their stuff is still piled inside and slides into the passenger seat, already whipping out his GPS.

He tracks the cop's movements on the radio, scanning the GPS for a back road out of town that only a local would know about and the Sheriff wouldn't think to block. He snaps out quick and precise directions to Dean, and in under eight minutes they are cruising on a two way out of town. Forty minutes later their hearts slow down. An hour after that the dread kicks in.

They had almost died, not because of a mistake on a hunt or because something badass got the drop on them. They almost died because they had been forcibly pulled apart and separated. Their hearts had stopped for a few endless seconds, would still be stopped, if they hadn't been loaded in the back of that ambulance together.

Sam and Dean stare into the dark of night. The Impala is eating up liquid-black asphalt like a last meal and all they can think about is how thankful they are to be sitting side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder as they disappear into the night.


End file.
